The hot air balloon gets blurrier
with each slide until It becomes
clear again; with a brilliant resolve
that leads to brown circular frames,
No matter how much you
wipe away the anxious
fog that creeps like a vine
with the edge of a cotton shirt,
The bright green
hills are still visible
but the truth is not.
Because the answer
to the universe
is not merely 42,
and betrayal cannot be foreseen
even through clear lenses
Or from the vantage of a hot air balloon.
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your vision, your voice